Porphyria's Lover
by MitziMartyn
Summary: Year after the Weston incident, Gregory Violet is forced to face his demons. Rated M for gore and graphic descriptions of violence.
1. Chapter 1

**I.**

What a circus. The gallery, usually so silent, was for once filled with the buzzing of countless guests – artists, nobles, art collectors and waiters serving the whole company champagne shimmering in the light of crystal chandeliers like liquid sunshine.

Gregory didn't allow the crowd to distract him – after all, he came to see the exhibition itself. The very exhibition which provoked such passionate responses from the public and the critics alike. All of that caused by a single man – Louis Dossett, a London-born painter, struggling to gain some recognition for years, only to become famous overnight.

The pale youth glanced over his shoulder at the main star of the evening, surrounded by his fans, then turned his eyes back to the painting in front of him. He could see why it enchanted people – the rich colours, skillful use of contrast, the composition... yes. It was perfect. A twinge of envy settled in the back of his throat, leaving a bitter aftertaste.  
Since the expulsion, drawing became hard, if not impossible for the former prefect. He could not explain where lied the problem – his dedication, his skill and his passion for art, everything remained there – and yet, he could not draw anything that would not repulse him.  
It was frustrating to see a stranger's work, dazzling, fresh and original when his own artistic ambitions had gone up in flames.

A voice disturbed him from his sombre contemplation.

"What do you think?"

The youth folded his arms over his chest, almost as if offended by that interruption. "Interesting technique."

Said that, he looked at the other person, his eyes widening in surprise slightly, seeing it was Louis Dossett himself. The man could be about forty, with a dark, heavy stubble and broad, expressive mouth, now curved in a smile.

"You have been standing in front of this piece for solid ten minutes, so I take that as a compliment."

"It is," murmured Violet in response, turning his face away from the older man. He did not expect anyone would notice.

That particular painting depicted a young woman curled up on a sofa, wrapped in a purple shawl contrasting against her sickly pale skin and flaxen hair, wound around her throat like a makeshift noose. _Porphyria's Lover_ , read a discreet plaque underneath.

"I would like to create something like that myself."

Dossett smiled and patted his shoulder. "Wanting is not sufficient. It takes years of hard work – but should you ever want to try painting, you may visit me in my studio. I like meeting fellow art enthusiasts."

Gregory's frame tensed underneath the all too familiar touch. _Try?_ Lack of effort was not his problem, but he did not want to discuss that with a stranger – or anyone, for that matter.

"Maybe."

The response was quiet and the chatter of other visitors drowned it out completely. It didn't matter, since the next second another admirer demanded the painter's attention. Only then Violet realised his hands were clenched in fists so hard his nails left white crescents on his skin.

There were too many people that night. He shouldn't have postponed the visit to the exhibition until the final evening – yet, he couldn't bring himself to come sooner. Going to galleries didn't inspire him anymore – all those great artworks depressed him, as he knew that he would never draw anything decent ever again.

That time was no different. The cold, violet eyes followed Dossett's bold strokes of paint, at the same time seeing the blanket of crumpled papers on the floor of his own room. A wave of helpless anger washed over him, making him feel sick. He needed to leave. Immediately.

Gregory pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and walked outside. There he could take a deep breath, allowing the evening air to soothe the scorching grief rising in him – somewhere deep, where a soul should be.

But it wasn't there anymore – just like his muse.

He leaned against a wall, counting till ten. At last the young artist calmed down enough to appreciate the serene beauty of his surroundings. London turned into a completely different city at night. Kinder. More peaceful. Countless lamps illuminated the street, their muted glow mixing with the bright silver of the stars scattered over the sky, each of them a jewel.

Only then he noticed a person sitting on the bottom of the stairs leading to the gallery's entrance. She didn't pay any attention to him – she could be just as well sleeping, leaning against the railing with her hair flowing down her shoulders in a mass of straight locks, so light they seemed almost white.

Just like the girl in the painting.

Led by an inauspicious premonition, the former prefect walked downstairs, holding his breath.  
His heart skipped a beat when he came close enough to see her face. Serene. Motionless. Like a mask. The woman's lips, painted crimson with a steady hand, would not part for breath – death made that unnecessary. Compared to Arden, the nameless female was remarkably beautiful, like a China doll.  
He reached out to lift her cold, waxy chin and swallowed hard at seeing a line on her neck – strangled? Quite possibly.

Gregory turned away from the body, clutching his stomach while droplets of sweat trickled down his upper lip, overwhelmed with sickness. In spite of the cold air, he felt hot, too hot and everything around was spinning.

The corpse just sat there, unfazed.

Instincts urged him to run – the destination didn't matter as long as it would be far enough from the gruesome scene. Instead he returned to the gallery.

Only two or three visitors noticed his arrival, but soon all eyes were on him, puzzled by his pallid face and trembling hands. The young noble straightened up to his full height, desperately trying to regain his usual composure even though he could hardly stand.

"There is a... a dead person outside."


	2. Chapter 2

**II.**

Gregory found himself sitting in the gallery owner's office, ignoring Mr Keane's – that was the gentleman's name – horrified expression when he put his feet on his large, plush armchair, resting his chin on his knees in an almost childlike position. The police just left and so did the visitors, leaving Gregory, Mr Keane and Dossett alone.

The painter kept pacing back and forth, gnawing on his lower lip. He was the first one to go outside when the youth announced his terrible discovery and it seemed the sight shocked him out of his charm, for he didn't utter a word since they came into the office.

Keane, on the other hand, soon regained his composure. He drew a half-empty bottle of brandy from the depths of his writing desk and poured each of them a generous shot.

"At least the exhibition ends tonight," remarked Dossett and knocked back the drink.

Keane hesitated. "Maybe we should extend the duration, Louis. The public will show interest, that's for sure."

"This is vulturism! I refuse-"

Violet reached for his glass, wrapping both his hands around it, as if the cold, amber liquid could warm him up. The discussion going on didn't concern him in the slightest. He took a sip, immediately regretting that decision. The brandy tasted awful, the two men with him wouldn't shut up and he was fed up with the whole situation. He put the glass back on the table and stood up, smoothing the sleeves of his cape.

"I'm going home," uttered the ex-prefect, on his way to the door out, before a hand on his shoulder stopped him. Dossett.

"Wait. My assistant will be there soon with a cab, so we'll take you home. It's too late to be roaming the streets alone."

The youth pushed the hand away, averting his face. Because of his appearance, people often stared at him, yet never like the older man did. Going with him anywhere was the last thing he would have wanted, but the idea of walking home through the dim streets after the fresh incident didn't seem appealing either.

As if on a cue, they could hear the sound of hooves on the road, growing louder and louder, until it stopped underneath the open window.

"That's Walter!" Ignoring Keane, who was taking care of Gregory's almost untouched drink, Dossett grabbed the boy's elbow and led him through the maze of narrow corridors to the back entrance.

Truly, a young, flaxen-haired man awaited the painter there, though Violet's presence obviously surprised him. He have his master a puzzled look, but said artist only shrugged it off.

"This is... what's your name, while we're at it?"

"Violet."

"But that's a gi-"

"Gregory Violet."

"Well, we'll be taking Gregory home," announced Dossett, using his first name as if they were old friends. It struck the youth as odd – was he so familiar with everyone? Judging by the way his assistant just accepted it without further questions, probably yes.

* * *

They spent the ride to the Violet estate in relative silence in spite of Dossett's constant attempts to strike a conversation – in the end he gave up, assuming his eccentric companion needed some time to collect himself after the unpleasant experience.

When the carriage stopped, Gregory could hardly wait to get out and go home, but the other man stopped him before he pulled off French exit. He gave the black-haired boy an ornate calling card with his name and address.

"Visit me in the atelier. I believe it could be very... educational."

* * *

The mansion slept, a dark outline against the starry sky – quiet, _waiting_. Gregory slipped inside, sneaking a glance at the grandfather clock opposite the window in the hall. Almost midnight.

With a sigh he headed upstairs to his room, wanting to die for a few hours, but a faint sound of the piano stopped him. It meant his mother was still awake and the boy couldn't decide whether that was a good thing or not, considering the meeting scheduled for that evening.

It was a public secret that late lord Violet kept a number of mistresses – one of them, miss Mondelli, even received payment every month to support Gregory's adorable, illegitimate half-siblings. They never met and the Violets preferred it that way.

And there laid the problem.

Two weeks earlier, his mother received a letter in the typical mixture of English and Italian saying – threatening? - the woman had arrived in England with her children and that her next stop would be London. She didn't explain why, but it wasn't that hard to figure out. And, of course, any wish she might voice would be granted – the family couldn't afford another scandal.

He stood in the front of the drawing room for a few minutes, listening to the music, before he entered. No sooner had the door closed behind him than his mother stopped playing.

"I was getting worried."

The artist, if he could still call himself one, leaned against the door frame, fiddling with a strand of his hair before replying.

"The exhibition was _interesting_." At the moment he didn't feel inclined to talk about those too good and too unsettling paintings, Dossett or the unknown woman displayed in front of the gallery. It would be all in the newspaper tomorrow, so why waste precious breath explaining? "How did the meeting go?"

"It did not. Miss Mondelli decided not to come," responded the dark-haired woman, stacking the musical sheets into a neat pile. "I can't say I mind. You have to tell me everything about the exhibition tomorrow."

"I'm not sure if that's going to be necessary," murmured the youth before leaving the room. "Good night."

* * *

His prediction turned out to be correct – the event got the frontpage in the newspaper and pages upon pages of information – for the journalists it was the best thing since Jack the Ripper.  
A discreet notice announcing the prolongation of Dossett's exhibition didn't surprise Violet at all.

The nameless female still wasn't identified and to make the matter worse, the police had trouble estimating the time of her death, seeing as her murderer took great care to make her look perfect - embalming, make-up, dress, pose. Everything to bring the dead flesh closer to the ethereal grace of the woman on Dossett's painting.

 _Well, some artists work with stranger materials,_ thought Gregory to himself. The resemblance between the scene in Porphyria's Lover and the scene on the stairs was uncanny – under different circumstances he would suspect Dossett in person, but that would be impossible, seeing the man had been present in the gallery all evening and somebody would notice if he...

Before that idea could gain a proper shape, he closed the newspaper. The whole affair had nothing to do with him and he wanted to keep it that way.

Things went back to normal. For two days.

* * *

The piece of charcoal felt awkward in his fingers. Gregory shifted in his seat and brushed a strand of hair from his eyes, letting out an irritated huff when it fell back. The picture in front of him represented... absolutely nothing. No matter how hard he tried, it looked like a mess of smudged black lines in a vaguely human shape.

Another ball of crumpled paper hit the floor.

The youth stood up and walked over to the window, peeping outside through a crack between the curtains. High summer, his least favourite part of the year. The sun wouldn't allow him to go outside and take a break, even though he craved to escape the stale air in his room – he couldn't escape his thoughts, but it still would've been an improvement.

A heavy knock fell on the door. Gregory briefly considered pretending not to be there, but after another insistent knock decided against it.

"Who's there?"

"Inspector Abberline. Open the door."

Panic. _It's here,_ flashed through his mind, even though he knew full that what happened in Weston was, at least in the eyes of law, a closed case. His hand sweated when he opened the door, facing a tall man sporting a worn-out suit and a bowler hat. He kept shuffling around, looking over the youth's shoulder into the dim room filled with scattered sketchbooks, broken pencils, hairpins, half-burnt candles and other assorted items he couldn't make out in the darkness. Two cups standing on the bedside table were connected together by a thick net of cobwebs.  
Fortunately the young noble didn't think to invite him inside.

There was awkward silence before the inspector blurted out, somehow apologetic: "The housekeeper let me in. I... I need to ask you a couple of questions, sir."

...


	3. Chapter 3

**III.**

A couple of questions. That didn't sound like good news.

"I talked to the police already. That evening, when I found her," huffed Gregory, crossing his arms over his chest.

The inspector pulled a tattered notebook from the inner pocket of his jacket and flipped through the pages as if to refresh his memory to gain a few seconds to think. He always found himself in a precarious position when dealing with nobles.

"Hey! What's up?" The voice – perhaps the loudest sound the Violet mansion had heard for months – made Abberline turn to the newcomer approaching them. Gregory didn't need to look – even after that long, dark year he hadn't forgotten the specific rhythm of footsteps as familiar as his own heartbeat. Confident. Unapologetic. Resolute.

"Cheslock, this is inspector Abberline," explained the dethroned prefect, unable to look at him. An old friend appearing the same day the police questioned him about a mysterious murder? Violet doubted it would be a coincidence.

Only then the investigator stopped gawking at Cheslock's hair and snapped back to reality. "Oh yes, I wanted to ask about the first victim. You said you haven't seen her before."

"Yes..." Violet paused in surprise. " _First_?"

The man hastily dropped his gaze back to his notebook. "Alessia Mondelli, does it sound familiar? After the photographies were published, we were contacted by a receptionist in an inn where she was staying with her children."

"I can't say I _met_ anyone of that name before." Nobody could accuse him of lying, no, but for now it seemed redundant to acquaint the Yard with their family history.

Not the wisest move. "We searched her room and we found the address of this house in her belongings. How would you explain that?"

"Maybe she knew my father," acknowledged the artist reluctantly, tugging at the bleached strand of his hair. "He travelled frequently."

Those answers didn't satisfy Abberline who was by then almost certain the Violets were hiding something from him, but he couldn't prove it. The problem with nobles – a simple officer had few means of getting them to tell the truth and they knew it. One last shot.

"Where were you yesterday night, between ten o'clock and midnight, if I may ask?"

Gregory admitted to himself that conversation officially stopped making sense. "Here. In my room."

"Is there anybody who-"

"Yeah, I'm here since yesterday afternoon," stated Cheslock before the poor man had a chance to finish his question, hands on hips, his tone as brash as his glare. "Is that all?"

"Yes, it is," sighed the man in defeat and flipped his notebook closed.

* * *

"Why did you lie?" asked Gregory his friend who was restlessly pacing around the messy room.

Cheslock didn't grace the question with an answer, but he stopped in front of the window and drew the heavy curtains open, letting the sunshine in. Light poured inside through the glass, revealing in full glory the chaos dominating in the artist's lair.

"The servants got time off or what?" Crumpled paper covering the floor, dust, cobwebs and shadows creeping in odd shapes over the walls were in striking contrast with the rest of the elegant mansion.

"They are not allowed to come here," whispered Violet. Since he became the official head of the estate nobody could question his orders, especially not the staff. Besides that, one of the maids kept hiding crosses and garlic bulbs in his drawers and while it used to amuse him, his patience didn't last as long as her enthusiasm after the expulsion.

"Jeez, Violet, you really can't be left without supervision, can you." The younger noble picked up one of the papers covering the floor and smoothed it against the hopelessly cluttered desk before he brought it closer to his face trying to make out something of the lines leading seemingly nowhere. "Trying a new style?"

"I don't draw anymore."

Cheslock dropped the paper. It landed smoothly at his feet. "Should I be worried?"

"You already are," pointed out the ex-prefect, sitting on his bed. "Not a word from you for a year and yet you appear just in time to run into the police."

Heavy silence set in.

"You think I'm behind that murder."

"Murders," corrected him the younger male, turning his face away. "Six more appeared tonight. Two in front of the St. Paul's Cathedral. One in front of that gallery nearby, two in Hyde park and the last one in Whitechapel. Some of them are yet to be identified, but the kids of that lady that started it were among them." Arms spread in a helpless gesture. "I'm not saying you're behind it, but... I just have no goddamn idea, fine? I used to think I knew you, that you trusted me with your secrets and I'm not gonna line, it felt bloody amazing, but now? Now I expect everyone to stab me in the back like you did, which, just for your information, is lethal for any human relationship."

"And yet you lied to the police to provide me with an alibi," pointed out Gregory. "Why?"

"Because..." _Because I can't stop caring._ "Because I wanted to. Have you seen that exhibition? Is it as good as they wrote in the papers?"

"Better," admitted the ex-artist, endlessly bothered by the fact Dossett _dared_ to flaunt his genius like that.

"Show me."

Violet finally turned to his fag, brows raised in a silent question.

"Show me," repeated Cheslock, louder. Just a trick of light – but the sunlight flooding inside made him look like an angel. A foul-mouthed angel with a death-hawk. "It's about time we get your moping rear outta here."

"There will be people in the gallery," uttered – or better - whined the youth, getting up. "Let's go."

* * *

"He's not even that good," decided Violet's companion, standing with his arms crossed in front of _The Chimney Sweeper_. The gallery was as crowded as they expected, but the space around them remained empty – as if nobody had the nerve to approach Cheslock. "This one was recreated tonight, in front of St. Paul's."

"I wonder why this one," mused Gregory, looking at the painted faces of two skinny boys huddled together for warmth.

"Lunatic's ways are mysterious," remarked a third voice. The boys turned around, surprised somebody caught their small exchange. Dossett, his unnaturally broad mouth and his demure what-was-his-name assistant.

"Gregory, I thought you would visit me in the atelier – I am glad to see you again. You surely remember Walter."

The younger artist nodded, gesturing over to his friend. "Cheslock."

"Pleased to meet you," said the older man with a slight bow. "I hope you like the exhibition."

"I've seen better," retorted the teen, straightening his back. To tell the truth, Walter seemed more offended by that than the painter himself – he just laughed.

"A discerning critic, I like that. With a little bit of luck you will enjoy the next one more. I have something in progress and it looks fine so far. If you're interested, I could show you two."

"I'm not interested," decided Violet, wrapping his cloak tighter around himself. Dossett's behaviour, exaggerated friendliness, apish grin and talent – he didn't want any of that anywhere near his person. "Let's go, Ches."

For once, his former fag didn't seem willing to follow the gentle-spoken request. He shook his head. "You'll have to go alone, I haven't seen everything yet. I'll drop by tomorrow... if you want me to, that's it."

Gregory left without a word.

* * *

The curtains were drawn once again and another ball of paper hit the floor. The youth sat on his bed, surrounded by those failed attempts at art, wondering if setting the room on fire would help. _Probably_ not.

The clock in the hall struck twelve and a gentle knock fell on the door. "Are you sleeping, dear?"

His mother. Strange. The former prefect dragged himself out of the bed and opened the door. "Is something the matter?"

"I hope not," started the violet-eyed woman, tugging at a strand of her hair. "Have you seen, by any chance, Cheslock today? His father just called here, saying he left after breakfast and hasn't returned since then. He seemed to be worried."

Gregory felt the remains of his heart sink in his chest. No. That could not be true. He stood there frozen on the spot, trying to understand the new piece of information. His throat went dry and it took him a moment to pull himself together.

"We visited that gallery together in the afternoon... he stayed there..." Dossett. He didn't know _how_ , but the painter had his nasty fingers in that. "I must find him."

"Darling, it is late," protested the lady, placing her hands on his shoulders. "I am certain he will come home soon and if not, the police will act in his best interest."

"No, you do not understand, I know where he is and if I'm late, it won't matter anymore!" barked Gregory and rushed to his room, turning everything upside down to find the calling card that monster gave him. He heard a soft, anxious voice of the lady of the house, but he couldn't focus on her words.

At last he found the card, hidden underneath a teacup full of mould.

"I'll be back soon," promised the boy breathlessly and – with some hesitation – quickly hugged his mother before hurrying out of the mansion into the hot, unforgiving night.

...


	4. Chapter 4

**This is the penultimate chapter of my second P4 story – it was a pleasant surprise to find out that other people wanted to find out what happened after the Weston arc ended. I'd like to thank you all for your kind support and comments. Enjoy.**

 **IV.**

Gregory pulled the cape deeper into his face in a desperate attempt to shake off that feeling of being watched while he walked, chanting the monster's address underneath his breath – the only sound in oddly quiet streets. The whisper, light footsteps on the pavement and deafening hissing of blood in his ears.

Whenever the artist closed his eyes, the image of the breathtaking cadaver in front of the gallery appeared in front of him, so close that he could almost reach out and touch her motionless face buried underneath the coating of greasy make-up. The mere idea that the same fate might befall Cheslock, one of those few people he cared about made him speed up and even though the crippling feeling of powerlessness that held his muses captive followed, it didn't stop him.

For the first time since the expulsion Violet knew what to do, even though he wasn't yet sure _how_.

* * *

Walter opened the door, inviting the artist inside with a gesture. "How may I help you, sir? It is rather la-"

"Where. Is. Cheslock." A growl rather than a question forced its way through the youth's gritted teeth.

"Oh, your friend? He is upstairs with Louis... Mr Dossett, I mean. He wanted to show him a... _dulcian_ – was it? - he brought from our last journey. They probably just forgot about the time. If you give me a moment, I will tell them you're here, sir. I was about to call them for tea anyway."

The assistant ushered him into the parlour and poured him a cup of hot, fragrant tea before leaving the guest. Gregory sat on the edge of the sofa, listening to the faint sound of voices coming through the open window from the room above – he couldn't make out any words, but he recognised Dossett's velvet-like baritone, cut short by the creak of the door opening. Walter.  
Then, unexpected, Cheslock's husky voice joined the discussion.

So his instinct failed him and his friend had been fine all along. He knew it _should_ make him happy, but a part of him hoped – believed – that Dossett would turn out to be a hideous criminal. Just like Gregory himself.

If Arden taught him anything, it was that the brightest talent cast the darkest shadow.

The former prefect relaxed in his seat and took a sip of tea. Darjeeling, mother's favourite, even though that one was whiskey-free. Too much sugar and yet bitter.

He felt tired. Tired of strange coincidences, tired of questions he couldn't answer, tired of his own mistakes, tired of nosy policemen, tired of flamboyant artists and their timid assistants, tired of nights spent afraid of nightmares, tired of his whole faulty existence. Tired of life. He would give with great pleasure everything for a moment of rest.

The empty cup fell from his hands.

* * *

Darkness. Warm, breathing body pressed next to his own. Heavy, alluring scent of jasmine with a whiff of paint. The cold, violet eyes remained shut. His eyelids weighed too much and the artist just didn't like the idea of moving. Not yet.

He nuzzled the hand resting on his cheek, unable to shake off the feeling he forgot something. Something important.

 _Dossett_.

Gregory tried to sit up, unpleasantly surprised upon seeing that he wasn't in Dossett's parlour anymore. How could he fall asleep? What the hell did Walter put into that tea? It took him a second to realise his wrists and ankles were tied and on top of that _someone_ changed his clothes for a grey, silk gown. Cheslock slept there seated next to him, limp arm draped around his shoulders.

"Stay still, you'll ruin it," ordered a gentle voice from the corner. The ex-prefect turned behind the sound, seeing nothing save for a large canvas mounted on an easel. "It took him ages to find someone who would meet my aesthetical requirements, so stop fidgeting. Paint them alive this time, he said. They won't swell up, he said. I don't give a-"

The youth didn't listen, struggling to stand up from the sofa. His tied feet wouldn't obey and when he at last managed to stand up he tripped over the hem of his dress and fell on the carpet, bruising his hands in the process.

Walter peeped out from behind the canvas, his brows twitching in displeasure. "I am trying to concentrate here, if you don't mind."

Then Dossett entered the atelier, a pistol hanging loosely from his fingers. "Is everything all right? I just heard a bang."

The assistant stuck the brush coated with grey behind his ear and started rummaging through the tubes of paint placed on a stool next to him. "The dose was too small. Put him back up and wait here, I'll make some more."

The older man nodded and picked up Violet bridal style before placing him next to his friend. For once his face didn't show anything – it could've been a posthumous mask all the same. Cheslock stirred, but didn't wake.

The blond left them alone. Dossett locked the door and leant against the doorframe, looking everywhere but at the former prefect.

"So you didn't paint anything," murmured Gregory after a while, eyes fixed on the gun. "Walter does all the work for you. Disappointing."

"Disappointing?" Coarse, humourless laughter. "I'll tell you what's disappointing. Pouring your heart, soul and every hope into something you love for more than twenty years knowing it's pointless. That nobody will ever notice. Can you imagine that?"

"Kind of."

The man gave a sigh, perhaps the dying scream of his conscience, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I wish I didn't have to do this, but it's the only way."

"I don't understand." Barely more than a whisper, but still loud enough for the quiet atelier. The wolf-prefect glanced at the rope binding his bruised wrists together. The knot was secure and he saw he wouldn't be able to untie it, not without Dossett noticing. Cheslock behind him moved again. "Does it mean you killed all those people just so nobody would find out?"

"No, some of them were dead all along, but bodies spoil quickly. Walter and I... we... have an agreement. He will let me take the credit for his paintings as long as I keep getting him the materials necessary for his... other projects. He describes what he wants, I find a way to acquire it. Displaying them was never a part of the deal... though, I should've seen it coming. Trust me, I'd rather keep you alive. All of them."

"You can let us go. I won't tell."

The 'painter' laughed again. "And sink into oblivion? No, thank you, I've had enough of being ignored. I _deserve_ this fame. You can hardly give me a better offer."

The clock of a distant church tower struck four. Cheslock raised his head, struggling to open his eyes. "What's..."

"I can't give you a better offer," stated Gregory out of sudden. "You're lost already."

Dossett walked over to the unfinished painting, arms crossed over his chest. "What are you talking about? The police doesn't know. My alibi is flawless and nobody really notices Walter. Sometimes... sometimes the cheater wins, it seems."

"You're not a cheater. You're a mu-"

"I didn't kill them! Walter is the murderer!" At last the dispassionate mask cracked, showing... fear?

For the ex-prefect it was a familiar scene. While Violet didn't _like_ the older man nor did he feel any sympathy for his reasoning, he _understood_ what he had been going through since he became an accomplice. "Guilt is shared more easily than happiness and sooner or later it will eat through you. When _Porphyria's Lover_ was found, it shocked you. I know you'd give anything to be spared that sight, because it proves that by allowing it, you're as bad as Walter, if not _worse_. The most awkward part is that now he owns you and you still believe that you are the one who controls the situation."

The gun fell from the painter's shaking hand. "Shut up!"

The violet eyes fluttered closed and Gregory curled up next to his friend, wondering what was taking Walter so long. The idea of dying didn't appeal to him, but since there was no chance of escape, he wanted it to be quick, if nothing.

...


	5. Chapter 5

**V.**

The former prefect snuggled against his companion who seemingly still slept. Yet, unbeknown to Dossett, he was busy fighting the knot, his hands hidden behind Gregory's voluminous skirt while they led their rather one-sided discussion.

At last Cheslock, watching the scene with narrowed eyes, managed to loosen the knot – no problem for those miraculous fingers. His feet remained bound and he couldn't do anything about that without attracting Dossett's attention. Still, it granted him a chance to escape, provided Luck stood by his side.

He shoved his friend aside, leapt across the room and grabbed the gun at Dossett's feet. The man stamped on his wrist. The musician gasped for breath and his eyes welled up with tears, but his grip on the weapon tightened.

He pointed it at the painter, teeth clenched as he glared upwards, trying to ignore the pain. "Back away. I'll pull the trigger, don't think I won't."

The man stepped back and lifted his hands, glancing into the barrel nervously. "Now, calm down, you wouldn't want to do anything rash."

"A bit late for that," growled Cheslock, using his free hand to loosen the knot binding his ankles. "Violet, get up, we gotta get out, _prestissimo_."

No need to tell him twice – Gregory was already fumbling with the rope. Once he had freed his hands, he rushed to unlock the door. His trembling fingers wrapped around the cold key, clumsy like never before.

They darted out of the atelier, the painter right behind them. They ran - it was the only thing they could do. They ran through the dark corridors, multiplied in countless mirrors hanging on the walls. They ran as fast as they could in the mortal chase. They ran and ran and ran even though they were out of breath and out of hope, because it was easier to go on than to stop. The beast in their footsteps couldn't keep up with them, because they were running for their lives.

The front door appeared in front of them, just when they could hear Dossett approaching.

Violet tripped and fell.

Cheslock tossed the gun aside and rushed back to help his friend on his feet. With the grace of a syphilis-ridden manatee the artist managed to rise again. The younger grabbed his wrist and bolted with him through the main door into the slowly dying night.

* * *

Only when the lights of the mansion could not be seen anymore, they stopped. It was raining outside. The cold, heavy raindrops trickling down Gregory's burning cheeks tasted like blessing. Freezing, scared, exhausted – but alive.

He leaned against a wall, his legs hardly able to support him when he struggled for breath. The musician sank to his knees next to him, clutching his swollen wrist to his chest. It felt warmer than it should, but what worried him more was the dull, throbbing pain. Violet sat down, damp hair sticking to his forehead.

"How is your hand?"

"Still attached to the rest of my arm," grumbled Cheslock through gritted teeth. "What are we gonna do now?"

The youth hesitated. What they had to do was obvious enough, but the mere idea made his stomach tighten. "We should... contact the police. Walter must be stopped."

The other boy gave a grave nod and rested his head against his senior's shoulder. "The Bridewell Place station is the nearest one. Just... give me a second."

Silence set in between them. They sat hidden behind a large rhododendron bush, huddled together for comfort. The rain kept falling, soaking them to the bone. Gregory assumed that soon there would be more rainwater than blood in his veins.  
He reached up and wiped his lips of the lipstick Walter put on him when he slept. It left pale pink smudges on his fingertips. His eyes fluttered closed, soothed by the warmth Cheslock's body radiated. Time passed around them, unnoticed. For now they were safe, nothing else concerned the ex-prefect.

"We should get up," mumbled the younger, lifting his head. "It's not over yet."

* * *

After two years of service in the London police forces Frederick believed he had seen everything that damned city had to offer, but the couple that staggered into the office still made him raise an eyebrow in surprise. They looked like they had just returned from a particularly adventurous trip to Hell.

"You must come with us," blurted out Gregory. "We found out who has been doing it."

The officer blinked up a few times. "Miss, every year there are roughly three to four hundred homicides, more than three thousand crimes related to prostitution, roughly the same number o' people missin', countless drunkards causin' public nuisance and don't get me even started on thieves and other regular offenders. Ye'll have to be a tad more specific."

"The embalmed corpses appearing everywhere," explained Cheslock, stumbling over his tongue as he tried to tell him everything at once. "We were supposed to go next. It's not far from here, we'll fill you in on the way, but we have to hurry, because they know we know and I bet they're already on the run!"

Well, at least the boy tried to be helpful.

* * *

The officer walked inside first, one hand on the grip of his Enfield revolver. It seemed the murderers ran away – they found the front entrance unlocked, lights out and thick silence creeping through the halls.

Violet quietly pointed to the door leading to the atelier. Frederick nodded and entered.

Walter was standing in front of the easel, mindlessly smearing vibrant red paint over the half-finished canvas, humming a melody. The gun Cheslock left in the main hall before was sticking out from his pocket.  
Dossett rested on the floor, almost as if asleep, weren't it for the bloodstain peeping out from underneath the posy of white tuberoses pinned to his chest.

Pallid, motionless, robbed of his dazzling vivacity.

Forever.

The blond glanced over his shoulder. "Took you long enough to come. Louis was getting nervous, but I have no intention of going to prison, if that's what you're here for."

"You murdered eight people, I don't think a caution will do," snorted Gregory.

"Fourteen. I faced some difficulties with the embalming process, so some of the material has gone to waste. Four are buried in the basement and other two are in my room, prepared to be exhibited." Walter shrugged and returned back to his work. "It's not like they were of much use alive. Most people aren't. Before I met Dossett, I made my living by painting pictures of queen Victoria with the whole royal gang on plates and mugs. Every day. Every single day the same useless doughy faces people worship because that's what everybody does. Isn't it perverted, Mr Officer?"

"Nah, not perverted. Just stupid. But what does that 'ave to do with anythin'?"

"Everything. Louis saw my work and offered me to work for him. Then we travelled to Italy together and there he showed me a whole new direction. Beauty. Real beauty without the gilt of status. I met a gorgeous woman on the ship back to England. She agreed to pose for me and only then I realised that while the human body is work of art in itself, canvas doesn't do it justice. There is only one way to _capture_ and _preserve_ it. She was the first. You liked her, Violet, didn't you. Louis told me you did."

The youth didn't answer for a painfully long moment, fascinated by the way Walter's brush danced in his hand. "No, not particularly. Though she was more aesthetically pleasing than the dead usually are, I'll give you that."

The other man burst out laughing. "Anyone is a critic nowadays."

Frederick shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Well, that's nice and all, but lay down that brush and put yer hands where I can see them. We're going to the station."

The murderer turned around, sized up the policeman and shook his head. "I don't think so."

He dropped the brush dipped in blood red and his fingers tightened around the grip of Dossett's gun with the same ease. Those feverish eyes clouded with madness still stared at Gregory when Walter pulled the trigger.

The shot left ringing in their ears. A drop of blood landed on Cheslock's lips. It tasted of iron.

It tasted of irony.

* * *

What a circus. More officers were called to Dossett's house and soon their excited buzzing filled it from the basement to the attic. They asked questions, more questions than Gregory could or wanted to answer, so when he finally made it back to the Violet estate it was nearing midday.

The cross examination at home turned out to be even more thorough. _Where did you go? What happened? Why are you wearing a dress?_

Tedious.

At last everybody left him alone with Cheslock in the parlour. His friend kept pacing around with an ice packet pressed to his wrist, relieved when the pain started to retreat.

"What are you going to do now?" asked the musician at last and plopped down on the armchair opposite Gregory.

"I..." Only then the youth realised he had no idea. He didn't expect getting out of their adventure alive, but he did. Yet, returning to the way things were before seemed impossible. Perhaps it was about time to make his peace with Greenhill, Redmond and Bluer. Or he could pack his suitcase and go somewhere interesting. Put the shards of his life together again. "I don't know."

The former prefect wanted to draw, nothing else. Nothing? His gaze dropped to his hands, resting idly on his lap. No, something would be missing, even if he could draw again. Or rather, someone. "But whatever it will be... I want to do it with you."


End file.
